


You can leave your hat on

by Cinnamaldeide



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Art critic AU, Assertive!Will, Beta Read, Body Appreciation, Hannibal Lecter is Roman Fell, Hannibal is not subtle, Hanniburn, Honestly I sort of am too, Klimt's Judith II, M/M, Murder, Slight Dirty Talk, Something porn, Sunburn, Will is SO done, Will is always indecisive, courting, dark!Will, misplaced quotations, slowburn, something gay, unorthodox but harmless methods, unwanted but appreciated gifts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 07:08:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9373613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinnamaldeide/pseuds/Cinnamaldeide
Summary: When Will first heard about the journey to Italy from Jack, he had pictured it differently.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’d say this is entirely on [Phenobarbital](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Phenobarbital/pseuds/Phenobarbital), who provided the inspiring image and the prompt from where it all started. Honestly I can’t say I wanted to make her a surprise, because I couldn’t offer something as the unbeta’d version of this mess, but I wanted to surprise her! Instead she kindly beta’d this whole thing for me. Again.  
> I can honestly say that none of this would have been possible without her.

 

“With Klimt, Judith is no more just a biblical heroin, nor a chaste saviour, so much as a woman that has discovered her sexuality and descended onto the darkness of the unconscious,” explains the voice in a quiet whisper, mindful not to sound too loud in the museum; “Discovering, thanks to Freud, her own innermost urge.”

Will needn’t know the story of the Jewish widow to appreciate the look of delight and satisfaction in the face of the woman portrayed on the canvas in front of him. Even without his empathy disorder, so useful in his academic career as an art critic, Will can see that this Judith is a sinner basking in the feeling of almightiness after her just consummated murder; or at least that is the artist’s intention in depicting a woman seduced by her own power. Will would know about it, since this is a recurring theme in his publications.

Closing his eyes, Will vividly imagines the painter, working adamantly on the reproduction of such a fortunate figure of the classical tradition, overwhelmingly aware that this work will be criticized, ignored, ridiculed.

Additionally, Will absently recognizes the insistent look that, with the same care, studies his features and waits for praise or a sagacious reply. Doctor Fell is not even aware he’s almost rudely persistent in his stare.

Since the day he’s had the pleasure of making Roman’s acquaintance, Will doesn’t often indulge in responding to him, because he’d be confirming that his behaviour is having the desired effect: Will considers himself a good judge of character, and he thinks Roman sometimes needs more training than the stray dogs waiting for him in the States. However, in that moment Will can’t resist the silence that surrounds them: “She was a respectful and virtuous woman, until she was not.”

When Will first heard about the journey to Italy from Jack, he had pictured it differently; Jack didn’t tell him that his presence was recommended but not strictly essential at the conference in Florence they were to attend, or that his wife would come along.

There had been no need for his participation, he hadn’t been invited to teach a lesson in front of the pretentious audience of the Italian faculty of Belle Arti, and has been present only as a supporting role, so he had remained seated and silent for the duration of the three days conference, while surrounded by a crowd of strangers not shutting their mouth for a minute, but thanks God, they were not speaking directly to him.

Worst still, while he’d heard about the suffocating summer heat, but he had not expected the almost total absence of air-conditioning in the old palace; Jack seemed to have no problem though, whilst changing slides in front of the audience. But the hat that had been on Will’s leg, which Jack had insisted he take with him because the sun at noon wouldn’t be bearable otherwise, had been so hot to wear that he had started waving it idly as a fan.

He had been fanning lazily at the time, even while he’d opened his mouth to express a particularly stinging comment on the last intervention from the crowd, such nonsense stated in a strong Italian accent from one of the guest in the ringside seats that left even the lecturer, who was so far extremely interesting, speechless for a moment too long. Will could not always agree with the archetypes presented by this showy Doctor Fell, yet he couldn’t bear for some distracted fools to ruin someone else’s lecture. He had known even without Jack’s disapproving look that he’d need to pose his apologies at the first intermission, since he could have chosen better words.

That’s how he had first started to speak with Roman Fell, apologising profusely for the embarrassing silence he’d caused, after having done the same with the other party of the squabble; the doctor had been so kind, answering with a comforting smile and an even stronger reproach than his own, assuring him that he had felt a certain relief in discovering the words hadn’t come out of his own mouth while at the podium.

Caught off guard, Will had taken a brief look at the mentioned mouth, to be certain the doctor had meant to assure him and let a certain complicity settle around them; the man had complimented Will’s hat, before putting a similar model on his own head and inviting him to lunch at a nearby restaurant.

Will would have declined, if Jack hadn’t told him just moments before not very subtly to search a place where to chill out, before showing up for the last hours of the conference.

Doctor Fell had been extremely insightful in moving him past his sarcastic attitude; Will had allowed himself to relax into the chair at his side once they had found their way back to the ancient palace.

Will can’t precisely tell how he ended up in a secluded art exhibition on heroism and seduction in Venice, after five days of his constancy. He doesn’t question anymore the hand that the doctor keeps on his back to direct him from one room to another, since he acts as if the casual touching, even in such hot weather, is common. With an inappropriate pride Will wears the light white shirt that Fell bought for him the day after he’d hinted absentmindedly about his own unfitting outfit, enjoying how his host takes pleasure at seeing him in it; his longing look is not even the first indirect compliment Will receives from him.

“Did the tour please you?” asks Roman, as he insisted on being called, once they’re outside the building and once again bathing in the afternoon sun. Will can see he is, in a strange way, genuinely invested in proposing suitably stimulating subjects for his intellect, as if eager to test his answers and fill in where he lacks, whenever possible; Fell is not a man that needs to look for praises.

Likewise, Will possesses the competence and the knowledge to impart a university lesson on most of the paintings in the gallery, even if Will has still not told him about his professional occupation. “As much as it pleases you to provide as a worthy guide, I suspect, you seemed to have a good time showing me around.” Roman wears more than one layer of clothing with class and elegance, while Will has tried since he got off the airplane to keep his decorum and at the same time not sweat as if in the heat described in Dante’s Inferno; Will has tried in turn to make him lose his composure by repaying his smooth kindness with candid, even a little harsh, honesty.

“I had a good time, indeed, but I wouldn’t put it entirely on the art on the walls.” such smooth kindness, more often than not. Will has no doubt Doctor Fell likes the sound of his own voice; Will has no doubts other people can relate to such a pleasure.

“No,” Will decides to repay his sweetness. “You like to fill with your knowledge what you consider a fitting container; you could make such a good teacher, if only the academic environment wasn’t so restricting,” then he averts his eyes. “Pity.” Will is not interested in discovering more than what’s already so clear on the outside, so he doesn’t offer an analysis more accurate.

Roman’s silence sometimes is louder than any words he’d be filling the emptiness with; Will knows each person has his moments, but the doctor seems to be suppressing one thought in favour of another, more than the simple rearrangement and translation of an opinion that needs smoothing on the edges. Will is familiar with the process, so it’s easy to recognize; the first time Roman fooled him with his charming smile notwithstanding.

“I’m flattered you’d picture me as a good teacher,” whispers the doctor, as if they are still immersed in the quiet illusion so typical of art expositions; “and also pleased I could predict your tastes in art,” he carries on, “Not everyone appreciate the derangement of a subject that for centuries has incarnated the feminine heroism. I’m glad you could.”

More than Roman can imagine, probably; Will seems to be particularly prone to seeing with clarity the beauty behind the grotesque and the apparent madness. Judging from the subtle inflection in his tone, Will guesses that the doctor somehow foresees his inclinations.

He thinks that his return is scheduled the following day, so he needn’t worry about them being exposed, yet the comfort Will takes in thinking that their casual encounter is not fated to continue is not as soothing as it should be.

There’s a certain pleasure in being glimpsed at, if not wholly seen, one he thinks of as particularly dangerous in his case. Roman conceals an incredibly cunning nature under a remarkably cultured intellect, so he probably perceives on a basic level Will’s unique ability to fully immerse himself in the painter’s perspective; he can taste Roman’s craving to see how far his capacity can be pushed, his desire to demolish brick by brick the walls Will so carefully built to preserve his innermost self. There’s a form of respect for Will in Roman’s longing for answers, but the man is restlessly impatient to see all of Will, for all his endurance.

“It seems I’m not the only one,” Will realizes Roman is also waiting to be seen in return. “You have the same tastes, or at least you reflect my own reaction in front of such an undeniably masterful work.” Beyond the pursuit of the artist throwing the paint, where Will so rarely concedes himself to step foot; “It’s beautiful,” escapes from his lips in a soft confession.

Will is not sure he has the time to fully process the expression Roman is offering him, almost timid in how content he finds himself with Will’s admission; he has only a moment before Roman once again conceals his unexpected desire, to make a man no more respectful and virtuous out of him, behind a satisfied grin, and Will settles for awkwardly fiddling with his own hat, hiding his eyes.

“I can’t disagree,” sighs Roman, before frowning at his blushing face and touching his neck lightly; “I may have kept you under the sun for too long: I suspect you’re developing mild sunburn. We shall heal to a sheltered place, before it gets worse.”

Will is already accustomed enough to the doctor’s hands, so he doesn’t jolt in surprise at the contact and just lets the warmth spread around the familiar touch, thinking that he should have taken the glasses at least. “I don’t think it has the time to worsen, since I’ll be flying back to the States in a matter of hours,” Will knows that the solution is not to escape the sun, anyway. He clears his throat, glad that Jack isn’t there to assist and will probably never meet Roman Fell, if Will can help it.

Will can’t recall his current location; as soon as he had assured Jack he could manage on his own, and that he had unexpectedly found suitable company in his absence, Jack has disappeared with Bella in the Florentine country. This speaks volumes about Jack’s confidence in Will, doesn’t it? He’s surprised Roman doesn’t express any form of discomfort after spending so much time with him voluntarily.

Roman seems lost in thought since Will mentioned his return journey; having forgotten the date means more for Roman than Will is comfortable acknowledging. A message on his phone informs him that Jack prefers to remind him the imminent journey, rather than risk Will being too besotted with his new acquaintance to remember; as if they were still in Italy for his choice and not because Bella had expressed her completely legitimate desire for a little sightseeing.

Will realizes time sure flies, considering he hadn’t come up with a better plan than spending the remaining days trying the wine selection of the hotel’s bar. Moreover, Jack had extended the duration to a full week without considering that Will could have had something better to do, not to mention his dogs.

“Will I have the pleasure of conveying my greetings to your traveling companions at the airport?” asks Roman, after recalling his attention and elegantly removing his hat in front of the metallic doors of the elevator in the hotel. His room is situated at the end of the corridor, empty and quiet, full of discarded papers and clothes on the bed needing to be reorganized sooner rather than later.

“Oh, you don’t have to come all the way-”

“I’ll gladly wish Jack and Bella a safe trip, once I have the honour of meeting them in person. You speak so fondly about them, I find myself curious to make their acquaintance, even if I admit I thought I still had some time to enjoy your presence.” He sighs, regretful. “I would have liked to show you more of Venice.”

With more time, Roman wouldn’t limit himself to Venice, Will can bet money on that.

Anyway, he can offer little words of consolation, since he still needs to pack his bags and set his documents in order, to make certain he’s not forgetting something important and to shower. He knows this will be an exhausting journey, there’s no need to aggravate it by depriving himself of the little sleep he might be able to achieve in the comfort of a soft bed. Will is still concerned that Jack might give Roman the third degree, but he can’t refuse Roman this small courtesy. “Alright--” not really, “Fine, we can still share a proper breakfast together, before we all have to deal with the lunch provided by the airplane company.”

Will can see that the doctor dreads to think about it, even if he doesn’t find the food particularly displeasing himself. Judging from the high quality cuisine he has presented to Will in the last days, in order to broaden his palate, Roman probably has specific places to dine, or provides for most of his own meals. He has been gifted with large, careful hands; Roman wouldn’t let them be wasted in a dusty office.

Will guesses correctly, as it turns out, since Roman is so confident in his culinary abilities to provide them with a home-made lunch box as an alternative to what they might find on board. And while he lists the ingredients with a mechanic tone, emphasizing that Will had previously informed him about Bella’s distastes in eating, even if he has no memory of giving such information, Will senses this is not the first time he’s offered such a gentle service for persons Roman considers dear. “Now you have the possibility of escaping indigestion,” he says to Will, who’s still focussing on the plastic container between his hands.

“You realize your gesture may be perceived as an act of extreme vanity, don’t you doctor?”

“I’ve never believed in false modesty,” he returns the smile that Will realizes he has unconsciously started and now timidly works to leave on his face, where it tugs at his cheeks; “My only hope is to live up to expectation.”

“You shouldn’t have,” still, its truthfulness declines in mere seconds, he doesn’t feel like the smile is appropriate anymore for some reasons. “Thank you, even if you shouldn’t have.”

Roman’s soft smile is a bit inappropriate too, for some other reasons. Will still hasn’t told him he enjoyed his company. He still doesn’t know Will had already known most of what he showed him, but listened enraptured all the same, as if he had been hearing about it for the first time; nor that his visit needn’t be as pleasing as he assured to make it for him. And Will is not telling him now, nor never, possibly. “Thank you for showing me around.”

“Thank you for allowing me, Will,” he starts a movement of his arm, as if to reach for his face with his hand, before stopping mid-air and continuing to speak, “Treat the sunburn, once you’re home.”

Will is embarrassingly aware that it’s not the sun’s fault. The sooner he parts from this man, the sooner this eagerness to spend more time in his presence will starts to grow; Will suspects he’s mirroring Roman’s feelings, when he perceive the craving for someone who doesn’t make him experience the sticky loneliness he’s so sadly accustomed to.

Jack is more effective in persuading Roman to part far from the chaotic waiting area of the airport; “Will has already considerable trouble with crowded places, although he gives speeches in front of thousands of people,” he drifts off, unaware of Will’s omission of that truth. He suspects Roman may once again glimpse his awkwardness, before Jack stops a taxi and invites everyone to gather their belongings, muttering expectations on road and air traffic. Will is not even sure he shakes hands with the doctor; he gets in the car and can’t look back through the car window.

Will dozes off in the airplane seat, shortly after consuming the meal Roman prepared for their long journey, and he can’t believe he’s slept for the most part of the flight, when the stewardess announces they’ve landed. He remembers he enjoyed, more than what he considers appropriate, the taste of seasoned vegetables and other highly digestible nourishment, even if in hindsight Will considers the remote eventuality that Roman had put a mild sedative in his lunch box.

The thought occurs while he’s driving home with said plastic container lying in the car seat next to him, as a looming presence still waiting to find its right place. While contemplating alternatives on how to dispose of it, Will can’t keep the man out of his mind.

Probably because Jack seems eager to speak about him and the unlikely balance they found so soon, despite Will’s less than mediocre social aptitude, Roman is topic of focus mentioned even at his workplace; Jack confirms once more he doesn’t particularly care for his desire or, more often, lack of the same to talk about specific arguments, so Will is not surprised when Beverly subtly observes she finally understands why things didn’t work with Alana. In all honesty, Will is not sure he wants to speak about it ever again, but he can’t deny the idea occurred to him too.

His dogs suspicious surround the white shirt on his bed, over the pile of laundry, as if the garment maintains an unfamiliar smell of stranger even after he has washed it; Will is not sure he’ll wear it once summer comes again, but he’ll have to drown it in aftershave, so that the pack recognize his odour and not someone else’s.

Will hopes he’s not too obvious, while drowning himself in work for the same reason. Anyway, there’s no need to keeps himself busy, since Jack continues to send him to art galleries in search for stolen masterpieces or detailed imitations of the same, while he’s supposed to teach in a classroom. He can’t blame Jack for pushing him; Will is his best man at catching forgers and tracing originals. Nonetheless, the suspect that one day soon his ability may backfire, if he keeps exposing himself on the field, afflicting his mind more than what should be allowed in this line of work.

Beverly expresses her silent concerns with a stern look each time Will sighs and rubs at his face in exhaustion. She probably hoped Italy would help him loosen the grip; all Will has achieved from his trip in Europe is a painting marked with an Italian stamp and no address to ship it back. Beverly is not particularly pleased to hear he doesn’t remember where or when he bought it, while her searching gaze lingers on the package currently lying on his desk. Will still hasn’t unwrapped it, but she insists on taking a look, “Since you forgot to buy souvenirs.” Her disapproving tone would be the death of him; “I demand the possession of whatever pretentious and horrible painting your subconscious wanted to hang on the wall of this sorry office.”

Beverly knows his tastes, even if they don’t collimate with hers and she seriously considers the chance of a delivering error just glancing at the wooden, richly inlaid frame that surrounds the picture. She stops reluctantly when Will asks her to confirm with the sorting office there are no mistakes, before they open someone else’s mail.

Will can spy warm colour oil brush strokes, above the paper layer that envelops the painting; he doesn’t wait for Beverly’s return to remove the remaining plastic protections and straightforwardly investigate the whole picture and at once a detail in the background catches his attention.

He remembers the well-hidden café where Roman had taken him to for their last supper, the setting sun painting the surroundings in bright orange, in the foreground, a stark naked man rests his spread hands on the iron railing of an ample balcony, leisurely relaxed as Will has probably never been, despite wearing nothing more than white headgear.

Will recognizes his hat on the man’s curly head.

Then he recognizes other similarities he shares with the man in the portrait; the small mole at the base of his neck, the fading scar on his left arm, the embarrassing way his ears try to stick out under his unruly brown hair. Will supposes Roman boasts a vivid imagination to recreate his whole figure starting from so little material, and he can’t spot his signature on the picture, nor the title he has chosen for it, yet he has no doubt it’s his work.

Will is torn between showing to Beverly this flattering image of his backside, knowing she’ll just draw her more or less accurate conclusions, or simply hiding the whole mess of paper, plastic and canvas under his desk, hoping for it to disappear like the dust from his books after the weekly visit from the old cleaning lady. Once his eyes notice the detail of the man’s bloody hands, he decides Beverly can admire it once his imminent panic attack has subsided.

Glancing at the door, he rapidly covers and packs the painting as slowly and as best he can, without attracting unwanted attention before he makes his escape towards his car. He forgets to lock his office and he dreads to think that every good excuse he could come up with won’t work with Beverly, but he drives home and puts the plastic bag containing the evidence in an unused room on the first floor where his dogs are not allowed to enter, then he returns to work with his tail between his legs.

“So you’re telling me the painting was for a colleague in Louisiana that couldn’t provide a delivery address, who you’ll meet in a week, since you’re going to visit your father’s grave, and that this colleague of yours would probably prefer for the package to remain untouched until its deliver, even if we already practically destroyed it,” says Beverly, unimpressed. “And you really believe I’ll fall for it.” Will has probably spent too much time in the car, elaborating this tall tale.

There is a general desire to see this go away, quickly and quietly, at least from his part; Beverly respects his wish, with the tacit awareness she’ll be the first to know if something changes on the matter. Will is not expecting anything to change, anyway.

In his spare evenings, he finds himself looking at the wrapping mess of paper and tape with a whisky glass in hand, wondering if its place is near the clean lunch box that lies on his draining board since last month, or hidden in the bottom of his wardrobe with the white shirt. The glass is empty before he comes to a decision, yet the swinging pendulum offers images of a ruined man reborn from his ashes; Will can’t accurately decipher how the painter intended for the model to be reduced to a state of gore and lustfulness, over all his intrinsic beauty.

His professional curiosity doesn’t allow him to submit to such vagueness, still he keeps in mind he won’t see the painter again. Will can’t conceive the idea of other people looking at it, yet he surprisingly doesn’t mind observing it himself.

“Roman had scarcely a week to come up with this,” he whispers to Winston, mildly interested. “What could he have done with more time?” Will knows he perfectly portrayed his proportions, Roman just couldn’t see the little imperfections on a subject in the flesh.

He has not just imagined himself posing for him.

The quality of his lessons improve when Will tries with effort to concentrate on soberer thoughts and fails miserably, or at least this is Jack’s line of thinking. He can trace such a progress to their visit in Italy, Crawford explains, and in particular his newfound acquaintance. Jack has contacted him and invited the good doctor as a guest lecturer, since he has been amenable to an improvised cultural exchange. Will can’t believe his luck, when Jack tells him he expects full cooperation on his part; “Fell is coming tomorrow to inspect his accommodations, you could give him a tour of the university,” he trails off, offering unwanted suggestions.

Will can just picture how awkward the following day is going to be, while he prepares for the night without looking at his portrait. He takes a cold shower the following morning and puts his glasses on his sweaty and unshaved face, and hopes that the apprehension isn’t as readable from his body language as Will suspects. He’d prefer not to point out the undeniable uneasiness of working for a man with such poor expectations on his behaviour and so many in his innate capacities, such as Jack.

“Your office is even sterner than I pictured it,” Roman placidly comments, a moment after he crosses through the unlocked doorway; he seems at ease, comfortably waiting for him at his desk. The sharp lines of his haute couture clothing has nothing to do with the man he has encountered overseas; not to speak about his tie. Frowning at it, Will says, “So that’s the reason why you sent that painting.”

Will isn’t so sure when Roman rises and approaches him, buttoning up the jacket of his three piece suit; “It had no signature,” he continues, folding his glasses, “but I suppose you can paint as well as you cook.”

“Not good enough to gain a place on your wall, it would seem,” he smiles knowingly.

Will raises an eyebrow dryly, “I’d say it’s not a picture for everyone to see.”

The smile on his face widens, as if Roman can’t help it; the flannel shirt and old jeans Will is wearing offends his sophisticated tastes, but he keeps his eyes on him trying to make up for lost time; not even the aftershave suits his senses, judging from the little twitch of his mouth as he flares his nostrils. Will can reflect his stupor, since neither of them is waiting for such a drastic change, yet he’s not avoiding eye contact as he’s wont to do. “What’s its name, anyway?”

Will moistens his lips, realizing Roman is not interested in a tour around the university, neither is he in delivering one; “I could make a guess and continue referring to it as ‘my naked B side’ painting, but you’ll probably prefer to call it differently, when we speak about it.”

“Tell me, Will,” he whispers, as if he still finds himself in a museum, admiring the showpiece of the whole exhibition. “How did you feel seeing it for the first time?”

Closing his eyes, the image comes easily to mind; beneath the winding passion of a warm body previously pressed against bare skin, the impersonal look of a sculptor ready to referentially face the marble destined to become an immortal sculpture. “I felt it was incomplete,” he opens his eyes with the sordid detail of bloody fingers still impressed on his retina, fixing them to the steady, longing gaze of a man who has never been so close to the epitome of love; “then the urge to offer any help I could in rendering it outright.”

 

 


	2. You give me reason to live

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second chapter no one asked for; please notice I added some tags.

  


Maintaining the calm before setting prey up for an ambush improves the chances of success for a predator; a low heart rate is supposed to truly reveal one’s capacity for violence, preventing the counterproductive dispersion of adrenaline, which might result in the unfruitful disposal of energy.

On a wider scale, Will acknowledges a certain addictiveness associated with the thrill of the hunt; more than just the need to provide for nourishment being met. The prevarication of death over life at a strong willed hand defines the limits of its individual authority in a bordered territory.

As the painter restricts his ability to his palette and the wooden support of his canvas, as the sculptor confines himself to his marble block and the skilful use of his hammer and chisel, so does the prowler combining instinct and inspiration. So does Will, biting suddenly into the neck of his unwitting victim; he feels like the artist his morals never allowed him to be.

His heart is not racing, while he murders Rinaldo Pazzi.

While he licks his stained teeth and blood profusely pours out of the inspector’s carotid, soiling his coat, shirt and tie, the man in front of him steadily analyses his behaviour, enraptured in a state of apparent bewilderment; neither mind the convulsing corpse, still warm but not for much longer, dropping unceremoniously on the floor between them.

The look of pleasure in his dark eyes reflect the sense of omnipotence Will always suspected was lying under his well-mannered pretence. If he’s honest with himself, Graham admits he is proud of himself for resisting his blatant advances long enough to discover the monster under the sophisticated man, without lingering in the besotted state that has entrapped many other suitor without fail.

“If I saw you every day, forever Will,” breathless words dissipate the silence, resounding in his dry throat, “I would remember this time.” Will recognises the barely contained enthusiasm in his voice and the confidential smile he reserves for intimate knowers of his dim nature.

As much as Will has apprehended of the controversial art lover disguised as a powerful yet harmless intellectual, never in a lifetime would he have imagined the depth of his internal turmoil; “Same goes for me, probably for entirely different reasons.” If he’s to believe each crime Pazzi had imputed to him, Will has reasons to fear for his own life even if he just crudely killed a police officer in front of their eyes.

Rinaldo had come to the States hoping to count on his support in catching _il Mostro di Firenze_ ; he could not fathom that Will Graham was no longer the man that left Italy with an unsettled mind but still clean hands; threatening the freedom of the man shaping his upcoming form hadn’t been a wise choice.

“You employ insightfully your mouth,” comments Hannibal Lecter, slowly approaching him across the red stained carpet; raising is head coyly and directing his complete attention to Will, he sweetly surrenders to the temptation of caressing his slightly damp, unshaved cheek, “As you often do with your eyes.”

So much blood commemorates his becoming, such delicious cracking and squishing sounds still resound beautifully in his ears, under his deep breaths, as Will recovers from his euphoric state and he aggressively intrudes in his personal space with his own chest. “Is this how you predicted I would go, Doctor Lecter?” tries the taste of his supposedly real identity. Adrenaline still flows in his system, he hardly realizes he may be bordering the line Hannibal traces between startled and impolite.

Will bathes in red, overwhelmed with satisfaction, after leaving just the man standing in front of him to claim the identity of Roman Fell once again; his compelling arousal tastes like warm wine percolated in honey, rendered sweeter and stronger. It engulfs him, intoxicates his senses as he languidly searches for stability by grinding up against Hannibal; he laps absentmindedly along the line of his sharp, perfectly shaven jaw.

“With all my knowledge and intuition,” comes the whisper to the shell of his ear, “I could never entirely predict you.” Bending over his sweating body on the cool floor, the adoring man touches his upper lip with eager fingers, leaving the crimson pearls to decorate his mouth intact; entrapped in his state of mild shock while sliding out of his clothes, Will concentrates his full attention on the slow inhale Hannibal takes, cataloguing the complex combination of scents that permeate the cheap motel room they occupy.

The soft, probably dirty carpet under his back tickles under the palms of his sticky hands, still soaked in Pazzi’s blood, while the heart of the man, at their feet, pumps out the last drops of life. Will enjoys the appreciative look his pursuer reserves for his divested limbs; Hannibal starves for his flesh, yet reprimands his instinct to a more controlled savouring; Will mirrors his reaction, wandering with curious eyes over the skin slowly revealed after he disposes of one garment after the other.

Hannibal discovers with his hands, running them as a blind man would while reading a Braille book, closing his eyes so that each sense has its chance to appreciate the same work from different slants. He inhales deeply, fluttering his eyelashes, as Will raises his hips lasciviously and allows his black underwear to slide against his erection, providing a sweet, delicious friction.

After trying to just keep it professional for a certain amount of time, Will had gotten seriously involved in the courtship the doctor had pursued in Italy. He had initially questioned the wisdom of conceding his attentions to this man, so eager to please and so loath to reveal his true self, yet Will could relate to such introversion, deep down inside knowing its origin. Will has since allowed their merge, encouraged it.

Running light fingers over his forearms, Will considers distracting Hannibal from his attempt at committing to memory the form of his body. He’s willing to provide a second chance to discover it, if Hannibal doesn’t keep him waiting too long; the displeasure of carnally joining in such a shallow setting bothers him more than necessary, yet Will is pleased to exercise control over the man that this murder has just indissolubly bounded to him.

Judith would be so proud of him, congratulating him for giving up his supposed innocence to exert power over a deadly, indomitable creature such as this.

If it suits Will to have him in a pigpen, Hannibal should better arrange soft straw, now that they are conjoined. Neither of them intends to bend to the other, yet relationships are made of compromises, and Will has just bitten a sniper bullet, dirtying his hands with murder, while Hannibal’s interaction with his dogs has yet to move past amicable tolerance.

Leading the wandering hand from his hips to his mouth, Will licks a finger, tests its texture; his movements are limited, yet Hannibal savours each involuntary twitch, drinks in his brief moans as he touches sensitive places spread along the way. Stray locks of hair fall on his chilling skin, tickling his rising and falling chest; broad shoulders insinuate themselves between his parted legs, brushing against his leaking erection, placing themselves where ample contact is possible.

Kisses punctuate his path, before Will is swallowed whole and lost in luscious darkness; as he contemplates the suffocating wetness wrapping around his length, Will considers he doesn’t remember ever arching his back so flexibly, chasing after someone else’s lips.

These hands are capable of much finer art than the world is ready for, thinks the man as Hannibal composes poetry on his aroused body, groping his flanks as soft clay and directing Will’s dripping glans into his claiming mouth, against his slippery tongue.

More than being appreciated as a statue on a pedestal, Will would gladly take part in this tampering process, yet he does not dare move: he merely listens to his own soft moans melodically accompanying the rough traces left on his sensitive inner thigh.

Reaching blindly for the soft, silky hair Hannibal keeps slicked back, Will wonders if he’s allowed to grab it, dishevel it, caress the entire length until his fingers reach the nape of his neck; to thoroughly explore his features as Hannibal ambitiously investigates the inside of his buttocks, while his nose distracts Will, by sinking into his ruffled pubic hair.

Despite his almost absent vocal inclination in bed, Will cannot refrain from calling his name, unsure in his bliss which statement to pronounce, ending up chanting both.

Wet fingers deftly trace his rectal walls, as Will’s come fills the accommodating inside of Hannibal’s eager mouth; his own breath harshly labours to leave his parched throat in rapid puffs. He is not sure of when he has learned to appreciate hints of anal penetration, but Hannibal may be partially responsible on the matter.

His imagination provides frames of Hannibal feeding him, parting his lips, filling his oral cavity as his own tongue moistens curious digits. The doctor would lick his own long thumb, chasing the taste of his mouth since direct access is not yet allowed; Will has to swallow, realizing he’s waiting for him to do just so with his own seminal liquid.

“If I remember correctly, there has been mention on your part of rendering outright my incomplete composition,” observes Hannibal, idly tracing his soft flesh with worn lips and damp palms. He suckles clean the traces his orgasm has left behind, steadily maintaining eye contact; the doctor seems to believe Will can’t get hard again so fast, even if his dick strenuously begs to differ.

“I don’t think this is the right moment to fill your gaps,” he manages to reply before letting his head collapse on the hygienically compromised flooring. Running a damp hand through his own hair, Will remembers it’s covered in blood, after gripping the soiled carpet in his feverish hold.

“On the contrary,” adds Hannibal, wearing evidence of a pleased smile in his glistening eyes, “I want to commit to memory each detail of your present state,” before briefly letting his lingering look sliding over his motionless figure, “And I’m sure you will not withstand your evident weariness much longer.”

Hannibal might have changed identity, but he conserves his annoying habit of being right and, at the same time, completely unrealistic. Though this sounds like an attractive proposal, Will needs to wash away blood and come from his body, to redress with clean clothes and what supposedly remains of his dignity, to dispose of an investigator’s corpse as soon and quietly as possible; God forbid getting away with murder.

Taking a nap does not sound like the best option at that moment; Will doubts ordering coffee from room service is either, yet he needs to collect his thoughts in order to get rid of the evidence. A quick shower seems his only available alternative.

The cold water ruthlessly hits his back, wets his hair, leaving traces of faded red on the plastic flooring of the box shower; it creaks unflatteringly under his weight, but Will is too lost in his thoughts to notice. He’s going to burn the poor pinkish washcloth he’s scouring himself with in the near future, he decides while wrapping it around his still damp flanks.

The cloud of steam surrounding Will disperses as he opens the door, ready to offer the haphazard principle of a plan he has come up with, yet shuts his mouth, completely taken aback by the absence of either human form in the room, whether dead or alive.

Rubbing his tired eyes with the palms of his hands, Will swears trying to remember if he has taken his medicine to prevent an encephalitis recurrence, wondering if this is all an episode and, if so, at which point did he start to hallucinate. The muffled sound of footsteps behind him interrupts his intense line of reasoning.

“In haste and the heat of ambition,” says Hannibal with a calm tone, apparently oblivious of Will’s attentions, “the _Questura_ nearly destroyed my house in Italy, trying to find evidence.”

The suspicious plastic suit he nonchalantly wears over his elegant outfit drenches the floor at his feet in a puddle of blood, sliding almost entirely on the synthetic material leaving nothing more than a rivulet after its passage. “You left none,” allows Will, “otherwise there wouldn’t have been just a greedy little man wanting to catch you.”

Reaching for his naked skin, Hannibal caresses his shoulders with gloved hands; “Blame has a habit of not sticking to me, I assure you.” Lifting an eyebrow, Will considers Hannibal may be implying his desire to give credit where credit is due, pinning the murder on him just to look at what Will would do, left to his own devices.

Trust doesn’t come back easily once betrayed; Will hopes Hannibal values his enough to consider there would be a reckoning on his disloyalty, would he so lightly endanger the both of them to satisfy his puerile curiosity.

Yielding to the expert, Will then limits himself to watch him dispose of the traces left behind after his own act of violence, admiring his meticulous work as each splutter of blood leaves walls and furniture, while bedsheets and carpet are temporarily pulled into an unmarked plastic bag; room service daily uses similar items.

Once Hannibal finishes, Will can barely recognize the room as a previous bloodstained crime scene; might even look better than when Rinaldo had rented it, not many hours prior. “Remind me to never get on your bad side,” whispers Will in his surreal rapture, considering he should regret at least some of his impertinent remarks; he doesn’t, not one of them.

When Will was younger and his sense of morality was still developing, he’d had to consider which path to follow in order to prevent his condition of empathy from worsening his already miserable life. His propensity on serving the community, Will had recognized as natural counterbalancing effect of the seeds of his latent violent inclinations, so instead of condemning his existence in order to expaite for his sinful soul, Will had preferred the comforting ambiguity of an artistic environment.

In his field, aesthetics often prevailed over questionable moral conflicts, even if it’s a very long way down to excuse murder aggravated by futile motives as artistic expression; he hadn’t been taking into account he could find himself in such extreme situations, walking the very fine line between unorthodox and socially acceptable practices.

Considering the way Hannibal purposefully handles his pencil on the white paper that separates them, sketching his pliant gluteal muscles uncaring of the prospect of their imminent arrest, Will supposes his greyish ethical principles may only darken under his bad influence; laying down with dogs, Will should have learned to expect fleas.

Arranged on a soft bed of cushions, he twitches under the furtive glances Hannibal concedes between one dotted line and the other; the naked portion of his upper body shivers because of the protracted attentions, while the faintest light filters inside from the large balcony, warming his bare limbs with gentle sunrays.

Hannibal has asked him to paint his hands in red, before starting his anatomical portrait, as he calls it; he offered Rinaldo’s last generous sample in a silver pitcher, basking their senses in the lingering metallic smell. Dried blood pulls at the corner of his mouth, at the intersection of his fingers, whenever Will moves, providing a pleasurably light constriction on his skin.

“Tell me what’s on your beautiful mind,” commands Hannibal in a kind whisper, aware of his distraction, not lifting his eyes from the paper.

“I haven’t reciprocated your courtesy in the motel room,” slips carelessly out of Will’s mouth, before considering Hannibal might find distasteful his comment. In a lazy stream of consciousness, he realizes his desire to seduce the focused portraitist, to ruin his concentration. “I might do just that, once I get tired of sitting over here.”

Hoping for a hint of frustration on his features, so composed and committed in his process, Will threatens to abandon his comfortable pose with small, apparently insignificant accommodations of his stiff muscles; these movements might irremediably change the final result, more than Will cares to assume, something a meticulous artist such as Hannibal can’t allow.

“You might regret it,” placidly retorts the man, caught in his own considerations; “It would take much more time for me to tire of your mouth,” begins arching his sparse eyebrows: “I could refrain from coming for a while, if the price was the prolonged sight of your watery eyes, brimming with expectation.”

“You would work so hard for me to recede from my restrained purposes, you would be joyful to receive my semen, even if you are by nature a reticent swallower. Your jaw would be so sweetly tired I would dare to kiss it better and risk aggravating the situation,” he goes on. Lifting his blown pupils, letting his lascivious glaze linger on the first, shy tug of the erection rapidly growing between Will’s legs. Hannibal declares himself satisfied, before patiently concluding; “Now please, refrain from moving, or this might take longer.”

Will thirsts for whatever liquid substance he could get his hands on, as his dry mouth fights to restore its natural state of salivation; he may get the chance to see for himself the extent of Hannibal’s patience. Will concedes the man is behaving quite professionally, considering the specular tug in his pants; the prospect of his promising long-term sexual performances persuades Will to preserve his energy, he might need them to keep up with the predator sitting in front of him, ready to strike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This all starts with the gorgeous image at the beginning, which I recently discovered belongs to [Kassirsha](http://50shades-of-violet.tumblr.com/post/152061812109/murder-husbands-in-croatia).  
> There was a long and detailed discussion on what Pheno could see on the pic, which actually contained a lot of sex, but ended up having none because it seems I need more time than the story was taking. I may or may not be considering the idea of a sequel. Just sayin’.  
> I know that calling Hannibal Roman from beginning to end wasn’t the brightest idea I could come up with, but I felt like Roman Fell may be his pseudonym in the artistic world that surrounds him, just like Chesapeake Ripper sounds like his murder alias. I hope I made myself clear. [The exhibition](http://www.visitmuve.it/en/cortocircuito-dialogue-between-the-centuries/around-klimt-giuditta-heroism-and-seduction/exhibition/) I was talking about really exists, if someone is interested.  
> Also, the title of the portrait is the name of the fic, if someone's still wondering about it, and also the title of a [fantastic song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kDR2fXoHdQw) that everybody knows (but probably nobody knows its name). Lol.  
> I expected this story to be hard work. What I didn't expect was that _the bae_ helped and came up with the brilliant idea of shipping overseas the painting, so that Hannibal and Will could fuck on it. I know he’s the one when he tells me things like this. Hope someone appreciate the joint effort; I’d love to know your opinion on our work.  
>  In case, [Tumbrl](http://cinnamaldeide.tumblr.com/) never gets old.  
>   
>  **Ch.2:** I already said I’m not good with porn, didn’t I?  
>  I tried my hand at it once again, after some time; I’m working on this since I published the first chapter, so you can imagine the nerve this is causing me. I have to thank [Phenobarbital](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Phenobarbital/pseuds/Phenobarbital) once again for supporting me and helping me out with the corrections, since I keep writing like I didn’t go to school and it shows so clearly when I write so much!  
> This was supposed to be some sort of gift for [Fhimechan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FhimeChan/pseuds/FhimeChan), but after recent events I don’t believe she needs it anymore xD if you are in London, you may be interested in making her acquaintance: she needs a lot of love and some Friendnibal, if you catch my drift.  
> Before I forget, the horrible manip at the beginning of this chapter is my doing: the magical combination of paint and [this nsfw-ish picture](http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nVEDsR1RsVc/Uei8gdCDeMI/AAAAAAABTDE/8zZWSrMj7-E/s1600/tumblr_mj7073Z8XX1rk4peno1_1280.jpg), which I found in [here](http://makealivingfromyourcomputer.blogspot.it/2013/07/a-collection-of-hot-naked-men.html).  
> Thank you very much for reading so far, I appreciate your commitment and your persistence; I’d appreciate even more if some of you would leave a note to tell me if you like or not my work: you can also [ask me](https://cinnamaldeide.tumblr.com/ask/) anything, if there’s something not clear. I’m just finding excuses for you to come to me, I admit it.  
> 


End file.
